Son in Sorrow (An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom Book Two)

By MeiLin Miranda

In this sequel to Lovers and Beloveds, MeiLin Miranda continues the saga of the Antremont family, kings of one continent, would-be emperors of another, and subjects to the whims of gods.

For a thousand years, the trapped, immortal Teacher has carefully planned escape. Now it all depends on one young man whose heart is tested like never before.

Estranged from his father, Prince Temmin of Antremont struggles within the Lovers' Temple for peace of mind. A murder rips away his greatest support. His forbidden love of Allis Obby, the human host of a goddess, may get them both killed. And all the while, enemies inside and outside the kingdom are plotting against the monarchy, and the gods prove once again they are no one's friends.

Set in a Victorianesque world of magic, sexuality, political intrigue and military conquest, Son in Sorrow is the second book in the epic fantasy series An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MeiLin Miranda
• Release date: Mar 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781926959221

MeiLin Miranda

MeiLin Miranda came back from the dead (for serious) to write the fantasy series "An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom" and the online fantasy western serial "Scryer's Gulch." She lives in Portland, OR with a husband, two kids, two cats, a floppy dog and far, far too much yarn.

Book preview

Son in Sorrow

by MeiLin Miranda

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Lynn Siprelle writing as MeiLin Miranda, licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, CA 94041.

This work is published by

Sans Culotte Press

4110 SE Hawthorne Blvd #428

Portland OR 97214

Cover design and illustration by Beatriz González: http://www.beagonzalez.com/

Original cover and character design by Alice Fox: http://www.alice-fox.net/

Book design by 1889 Labs: http://www.1889.ca/

Editing by Annetta Ribken: http://www.wordwebbing.com/

They are all brilliant and you should hire them right this minute.

Go to MeiLinMiranda.com for information, discussion and even more stories in this series.

ISBN: 978-1-926959-22-1

An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom

Book One: Lovers and Beloveds

Book Two: Son in Sorrow

Prequel stories: Accounts and The Gratification Engine (ebook only)

Other books by MeiLin Miranda

Scryer’s Gulch

The Machine God (Drifting Isle Chronicles), due late 2012

All books available at Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MeiLinMiranda

For the 138 people who believed enough in this project to back it via pre-sales at Kickstarter and my website,

my beautiful daughters who put up with my scribbling,

and the husband who has encouraged me every step of the way

Love to bear him, love to raise him, love to send him on his way

Son in sorrow, son in joy, brings darkness or the brightest day

Two the consorts, two the paths, two the deaths for him to rule

One will be the trusting child and three will be the rivals cruel

Thirst and hunger, sleep and death will come to strike a trusted one

And stones will shatter, stones will stand when might reclaims the rising sun

—Temmin's birth prophecy

Chapter One

Paggday night, the 9th day of Spring’s Beginning

Tremont Keep, Tremont City

I do not understand, Your Grace, why so glum the faces, said an enormous brown-skinned man. His long cloak of iridescent feathers covered otherwise unexceptional evening wear; his strong, naturally crimped black hair streamed unfettered down his back, and as he frowned around the ballroom in woozy concentration the blue-black tattoos curling round his nose and eyes furrowed.

Glum, Your Excellency? said his light-skinned companion. Anvalt Vonturus, Duke of Litta, was not a short man, but next to the tall ambassador even his stiff military bearing could not overcome an impression of smallness. In contrast with the ambassador's tattoos, a pale scar slashed through his left brow; a black ribbon clubbed his slate-colored hair in a queue that announced he was a conservative.

Litta glanced around the assembly milling about Tremont Keep's Great Ballroom in nervous clumps spiky with the glint of jewels. They winked on countless fingers; in the curls of women's hair; around slender wrists and wrists so fat they nearly hid their bracelets in their folds, and around necks both wrinkled and smooth; and from countless medals—some earned and some Litta knew were given to shut the bearer up. What a decadent age.

His eye settled on the musicians, fidgeting on the bandstand. To his approval, all the orchestra's members wore spotless evening attire, their brass and silver instruments polished to a blinding luster. The more careless musicians impatiently tapped violin and cello bows against their chair legs as the more careful ones rosined theirs; fingers ran up and down silent flutes, exercising the valves. Despite the orchestra's splendor, despite the brilliance of the Great Ballroom and its hundreds of inhabitants, a hesitant, uncertain mood hung over the whole.

I suppose one might call it glum, sir, he continued. This is not just the Heir's nineteenth birthday, but also his return to the Keep. Some are unsure how he will be received.

Received, sir? The Ambassador of the Vakale’le Confederacy, a Pau’an chieftain of birth high enough to match his stature, fidgeted in his unfamiliar suit; his broad, twitching shoulders set the feathers of his traditional cape to whispering. Who by?

By His Majesty King Harsin.

Happy the father on the birth date of the son, no? In Pau’a, this is so.

Litta allowed himself a smirk. Oh, it is so here as well. Prince Temmin has been elsewhere for the last year.

Where the Heir has been?

His Highness took religious orders at the Lovers’ Temple.

The feathers rustled in shock. The Heir is a priest?

Temporary orders. Supplicancy, muttered Litta. They end next year at Neya’s Day.

The Ambassador nudged the Duke, gently enough that Litta just stayed on his feet. Ha! My wife hopes we are to be here for the Day of Neya Spectacle. That makes two for us this year. Your Gods Days, they are reversed—your Day of Neya, our Day of Harla. It is fall for us when it is spring for you—Tremont is the far side of the world. The Ambassador's tattoos softened, and Litta realized the man was a bit drunk. Same Gods the world round, though different names. In strange lands, a comfort. It is said the Embodiments of the Lovers are most beautiful. To take on the Beloved Neya and the Lover Nerr—they must be so beautiful, indeed. They are real twins?

Issak and Allis Obby, yes, said Litta; his scar twitched.

The Ambassador pursed his lips. The Heir is Supplicant, you say? How brave to learn from the Gods, how strange he would have that much skill—no, what word, not skill yet, he learns now the skill—perhaps talent? Talent needs learning to become skill. Oh, to see that deep into someone, to know what he wants. What advantages they could be! He chose his next words carefully. The King does not like this?

Oh, very much not. Few nobles did. Litta himself feared the prophecy attending Temmin's Supplicancy. He'd helped the King try to stop it, but what had that gotten him but the worst run of luck he'd ever had in his life?

Movement at the top of the ballroom stairs drew everyone's attention upward. On the landing stood a breathtaking pair, a young man and woman each with the same luminous green eyes and loose, thick black hair. The Pau'an hissed, low and soft. This is them? Real twins, not a matched pair? Have you seen them together on Neya's Day, when the Gods possess them?

Litta nodded. He'd watched as the Gods borrowed the Obbys' bodies for lovemaking—but not last year. Probably not this year, either. He didn't even bother entering the lottery for tickets, supposing his entry would be mislaid. When he died, his body would be received into Harla's Hill, but his soul might wander the earth forever, a howling, despairing spirit. Blasphemy always carried such a risk.

In his still-reverent youth, he would have said he'd blaspheme when Nerr got the Heir—though he would never say the phrase aloud. The rather vulgar colloquialism meant that will never happen. It was the remnant of an old prophecy: when an Heir to the throne became Nerr's Supplicant, the common people would rise to equal the nobility. Of course, no one believed it would ever happen, hence the vulgar meaning.

Commoners believed fulfilling the prophecy meant their prosperity. As Litta grew older, studied more and came into his full inheritance, he'd come to disagree. The Scholars, the priests of Eddin the Wise One, had it right: when Nerr got the Heir as a Supplicant, the commoners would revolt and the nobility would fall. When it looked as if Prince Temmin would fulfill the prophecy, Litta blackmailed the Obbys to stop him; it backfired, and now Litta faced damnation. For nothing. At least the monarchy hadn't fallen. Yet.

Behind the twins stood an overly-rounded girl he recognized as Anda Barrows, and Temmin himself: the two Supplicants of the Lovers. The lanky young man had put on weight in his year at the Temple—not fat, simply more of a man's stature than a boy's. His beard had finally filled in, and Litta grudgingly approved the proper if short queue curling at the Heir's nape. None of that modern, liberal shagginess that made men look more like dogs, short hair flapping around their temples like a retriever's ears. The Prince seemed relaxed, unruffled and confident. Even when he spotted Litta, his poise never faltered; he twitched one golden eyebrow in recognition and looked away.

Litta shifted his own gaze to King Harsin; his old friend’s face was closed, unreadable. Let Temmin and his priests puzzle something out of that.

Temmin kept his face as tranquil as he could, though his heart beat so hard against his starched shirt front that its studs must be quivering. Would his father cut him on his own birthday? There'd been more than one royal snub in the last year: no invitations to his sisters' birthdays; careful avoidance at events requiring the attendance of the entire family; communication with the royal family completely blocked—even with his mother.

The Heir's birthday celebrations made contact unavoidable. Every year a countrywide public holiday and fireworks marked the day. Since his coming-of-age the year before, the royal family also hosted a ball. The one last year had been a daunting introduction to life in the City after his peaceful childhood home at Whithorse Estate, to the north and west in the rolling grasslands around Reggiston. How happy they'd all been at home—just him, his sisters, and Mama.

Temmin banished his melancholy and trained his gaze on the twins' glossy heads. Their nearness should have calmed him, but instead it brought more worries to mind. He'd been seeing less of them lately even though they were his teachers as well as his lovers. It troubled him, especially losing regular contact with Allis. In many ways he'd entered the service of the Gods for her sake; first her beauty and then her empathy had knocked him into near-insensibility. She'd instantly known his heart's every secret, and after a year in her company he trusted her more than anyone on earth but for his mother. No comfort could be found in thoughts of the twins; instead, he focused on his father.

Harsin wore his full dress cavalry uniform: a smartly-tailored tunic in the blood-dark hue called Tremontine red, and crisp white breeches tucked into brilliant black riding boots. Several jeweled medals, each one earned, hung in a cluster above his heart. He carried the only sword allowed in the room; it hung at his left hip from a broad black sash across his chest. He appeared invincible, as if he could conquer armies single-handed, though silver had almost conquered his beard and was increasingly invading his near-black hair. Temmin wondered if he'd finally grown taller than his father.

Beside the King stood Temmin's mother, Queen Ansella. She kept her gaze on the Embodiments, though the impatience and excitement twitching at the corner of her mouth told Temmin how much she wanted to embrace him.

Allis and Issak descended into the room's tense stillness to make their bow and curtsey before the King. Harsin took Issak by the right hand and Allis by the left, and raised them to their feet again before kissing each one on both cheeks. A pleased surprise rippled through the crowd.

The twins moved aside to make their obeisance to the Queen. Temmin's fellow Supplicant Anda Barrows flicked her eyes at him in signal, and they started down the remaining stairs to the King. Anda made her curtsey; Harsin raised her up, kissed her round cheeks and released her to the Queen.

The throng held its breath as Temmin and the King came face to face. Temmin concentrated on his training: Blink little, and slowly, smile little if at all. Face forward, eyes front but not staring, head just bent to show respect but not submission. Mimic his posture and stance, and then subtly start changing it—he will follow. Feel what you are doing, don't pretend. You've beaten him once, you have nothing to prove…Oh, if only that were true… He waited for his father to break the moment.

Harsin smiled, his white teeth blinding, and clasped Temmin at the elbows; Temmin followed suit, pulling his father close in relief. The onlookers exhaled. Harsin put his cheek against Temmin's and whispered, I haven't forgiven you, but I can play a part better than anyone in your Temple. Welcome home, he added aloud.

Thank you, sir, said Temmin, smiling as his insides wrenched. Well, at least he'd get to see his mother and sisters. At a sudden thought, Temmin leaned in again and murmured, Contrary to your expectations, the prophecy meant nothing. The nobility is still intact and you're still King. All your enmity for nothing, Father.

Harsin's smile hardened as he drew away. The night is young, son, he said aloud. Let's enjoy it while we may. He offered his arm to Allis, and she took it.

Temmin moved to his mother, and here his body relaxed; he ignored his training entirely and let delight overtake him. Good evening, Mother.

Good evening, my son, all formality until he kissed her on each cheek; she whispered, Oh, my sweetheart, how happy I am to see you! He breathed in her familiar scent of roses, lavender and Mama, and allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment.

He released her and saluted his sisters in the same way. First came Sedra Princess Royal, the most like their father of the three siblings—studious, dark and tall. Her chocolate eyes, usually crackling with intelligence and a somewhat biting wit, shone bright and soft tonight as she murmured a welcome.

Ellika was a different matter. The middle child was a near-copy of their mother but for her father's deep brown eyes, and she sparkled with excitement and fun. Where her sister wore a spare, elegant steel-colored dress, Ellika wore an exuberant display of lace and tiny pearls over pale primrose satin. Her golden curls bounced as she pounced on her brother and kissed his furred cheek. Temmy, you're home! she chirped in his ear before releasing him.

The King was to dance with Allis, Issak with the Princess Royal, and Temmin with his mother. Who would he give Ellika to for the first dance? Hovering on the crowd's edge stood that loathsome Percet Sandopint—Lord Fennows, the most unwelcome of Ellika's suitors, even if he was the son of the influential Duke of Corland.

Where was the man Temmin had seen earlier? Choosing him would send a clear signal to certain parties present. He led his sister past the glowering Fennows to his sometime enemy, the Duke of Litta, and presented her. Your Grace.

Ellika, who knew nothing of the history between her brother and the Duke, smiled and offered her hand. I am honored, said Litta, taking it in astonishment.

Temmin returned to his mother and gave her his arm. The music master shook his black mop of a mustache and his blacker mop of hair; he raised his long, thin arms, the music began, and the dancing pulsed with a cheer no longer forced.

Temmin twirled his mother through the dobla, the simple traditional dance that began all Tremontine balls. As they turned, he took in the room from the corners of his eyes, as he'd been trained. Issak was making the reserved Sedra blush; Ellika was treating the surprisingly graceful Litta as if he were in doddering need of her guidance, luckily to his amusement; and Harsin was entirely too close to Allis. His father wore the intimate, hooded expression that meant far more than polite interest.

Temmin buried his anger and brought his full attention back to his mother, to catch her scanning the balconies; she returned searching eyes to his face. "You look so very well! You've grown, my dear! Are you happy? Did you make the right decision?"

Oh, yes. His mother quirked a brow; no training could hide his heart from his mother. Mostly, he amended. It's not quite what I thought it would be. But I'm learning a great deal, and not all what…what most people think goes on there. He blushed; he still couldn't control his blushing reliably.

On the next turn Ansella looked up into the balconies again for a fleeting moment, and when he swung round himself he saw what had fixed her attention, or rather who: Ibbit, priestess of the Temple of Venna the Sister, and the Queen's religious advisor. She'd been Temmin's religious advisor when he was still at home, but they hated one another so much that Ibbit let Temmin skip most lessons: their one shared secret. Ibbit watched the dancing in disapproval until she saw the Queen; her long face broke out into a possessive gloat. She met Temmin's eyes, and her expression changed to contempt.

He spun his mother round the other way and found himself facing the many mirrors lining the hall. One did not reflect the glittering room. Instead, it showed something no one else in the room could see: a slight, androgynous figure, clad in a severe black suit covered in a black robe; its iron-colored hair was pulled back in a tight, conservative tail, and disturbing, silver-gray eyes followed him as he danced. Teacher! It was Teacher.

He smiled at the reflection on his next turn; Teacher's stern face split in a rare grin just before vanishing altogether. Seeing Teacher was almost as great a birthday gift as seeing his mother. He returned his attention to her, giving her a spin that left her giggling like a girl, and let happiness swell his heart.

Harsin spent his time working the crowd and dancing. Balls blended his two favorite pastimes: politics and women. Watching his lords at leisure taught him much. They revealed themselves not only in whom they talked to, but in whom they didn't. It was genuine dislike in cases like Anvalt Duke of Litta and Bornet Duke of Corland, but in the case of Corland and some of the minor lords of his duchy, it seemed to Harsin as if they didn't want to be caught speaking to one another. Interesting.

More interesting tonight were the women. Take Baroness Hawksfield, a blond beauty married to her much older husband not a year and here she was, blatantly carrying on with a handsome cavalry lieutenant. Did Hawksfield care? He couldn't be oblivious to his young wife's dalliances. The Baroness's libido must take after her sister's; Harsin glanced over at Anda Barrows, his son's fellow Supplicant. Baroness Hawksfield received all the beauty allotted to the Barrows girls, but all in all he thought the plainer of the two more honest in her wants, and far more appealing. Judging by the crowd of men around the plump Supplicant, he wasn't alone in his assessment.

Nevertheless, he put the Baroness on his list. Always good to have new faces; he'd gone through so many of the room's beauties already.

In the last year, he hadn't enjoyed his list as much as he had in the past. He chalked it up to the presence of his wife. For most of the last eighteen years she'd been living at her family's estate near Whithorse's ducal capital, raising their children. Her bride price had been simple: In exchange for her coveted hand, she was to be allowed to raise her children away from the Keep. She wanted to give them a normal childhood, she'd said. Harsin's main advisor Teacher had approved; it would ground the Prince in ways the traditional aristocratic education at Parkdale could not. Harsin had agreed; after all, it gave him a free hand with his own…interests.

What a mistake. Temmin grew up too comfortable among commoners, and Sedra grew up too fond of study. He could not complain about Ellika, he thought as his giddy daughter whirled past. Beautiful, happy and addicted to gaiety—a rather frivolous girl he'd have no trouble marrying off to a suitable ally, unlike her overly-serious sister.

Harsin rarely admitted to himself that Ansella's absence had aggravated him the most. Yes, he'd visited her at the Estate, official visits taken by carriage or the new train and secret visits taken there via Teacher's magic, but over the years they'd grown apart. A thousand miles separated them, as did the list. She was unwilling to cross the former, he to cross off the latter.

They'd spent the early days of their arranged marriage struggling against one another in bed and in life. He'd always wanted her, list or no, and before Temmin's birth he knew she wanted him in spite of herself. She might have even loved him. She was porcelain over a malleable metal he never quite shaped to his will. Her resistance thrilled him, aroused him and ultimately frustrated him.

Ansella looked particularly well tonight. She always did in blue. It so suited her porcelain-and-roses skin and golden hair, and it matched the shade of her eyes. The cut of her dress displayed her still-splendid figure without vulgarity, and he once again rued the distance between them. She was squeezing Sedra's hands as if in parting but she was looking over her daughter's shoulder. He followed his wife's gaze up into the galleries to Sister Ibbit.

Harsin was unused to rivals. It galled him. Why must everything always be so complicated with Ansella? Ibbit left the gallery as Ansella left the ballroom with nary a nod his way.

Corland's approach broke into his thoughts. Dashed impudent of that son of yours to give Princess Ellika to Litta for the first dance, he said. Belonged to Fennows, I should think. Everyone knows he's first among her suitors.

"'Everyone' does not know that, my Lord, replied Harsin, a chill in his voice. Ellika's marriage is still not settled and won't be until I complete negotiations for Sedra's. I would ask you to remember that."

Beg your pardon, Your Majesty, said Corland meekly.

Temmin played the moment well, singling Litta out for the honor.

"Litta and his honor. He's dashed unreasonable in council!"

I share Litta's opinions on your slaves, Borney. I don't want so many Incharis on Tremontine soil, especially under conditions where they might revolt.

Why would they revolt? Harsin raised a brow, and Corland grimaced. Well, yes, there were those damned impudent agitators I had to put down on my plantations in Endar.

Your 'damned impudent agitators' were three thousand strong.

The Seventeen Gentlemen of Inchar have had greater rebellions—

And the Seventeen have company troops to put them down. Imperial troops had to put your rebellion down, not you.

I remember. I'm still paying the Treasury, grumbled Corland. I don't know why you mightn't give me permission to move my own troops to Inchar. My own troops, Harsin, bought and paid for!

I need them at the border with the Northern Wastes.

There hasn't been an incursion in years!

And I will keep it that way. It's not negotiable, said Harsin. He cast a restless eye around the room in pursuit of his other interest.

Fennows was talking to a nervous young girl standing away from the dancing. A small circle of men were clustered around her as she blushed under their attentions. Beautiful thing, quite out of her element judging by the way she held her fan. She reminded Harsin of a foal still finding its feet, a foal who'd be a thoroughbred once she got them under her. The girl had astonishing eyes, as large and blue as a spring sky over the mountains, and brown hair the color of mink welled in ringlets over her shoulders. Her cherry dress walked an exquisite line, cut to draw maximum attention to the swell of her breasts, a dress meant for men's eyes and thus unusual; in polite society, women dressed for one another. The dress seemed to make her uncomfortable; her free hand constantly wandered to her neckline, only for her to yank it back down to pluck at her fan.

Harsin had no idea who she was, and rather doubted she was even minor nobility. How had she gotten past his social secretary? Lady Olster made exceptions at more casual affairs for prominent members of the gentility—at the most casual, even for members of the merchant class if they were wealthy enough and not too coarse. Any kind of commoner was not usually on the list for state occasions like the Heir's birthday; the King might make exceptions for a beautiful girl, but Lady Olster would not. Borney, who is that girl talking with your son?

Her? Nice little piece, ain't she? grinned Corland. Curves in all the right places. Don't approve of commoners at the Keep, I should think, but it's not up to me, is it? His small eyes squinted in disapproval. Ever heard of Shelstone and Sons?

The tailoring concern? I believe my man Gram has applied to them for his own needs, and pronounced them quite satisfactory. Is the father Shelstone or Son?

Neither—grandson. Elbig Shelstone. Revolting little man. Social climber.

It is hardly my habit to invite tailors to state occasions no matter how zestfully they climb.

Corland waved a dismissive hand. Oh, he's not a tailor any more—not any kind of merchant. Sold out and bought himself some gentility. Paid off a relation with a better name to launch his daughter into society. Has hopes for her—if not a brilliant marriage than a brilliant…liaison, shall we say? Recognized only, though. Kept proper.

Does she belong to Fennows?

Not to anyone as far as I'm aware, though not for lack of applicants. Corland noticed his son—the son supposedly devoted to Princess Ellika—flirting with the girl; he blanched and cleared his throat noisily. Percy was unavoidably introduced to her father—good friends with their relations, d'you see—and he made them known to me for the obvious reason. Might become that brilliant liaison myself if I can manage it. Certainly no other suitor's presented himself who's dazzling enough for Daddy. Corland gave a low, throaty chortle, choked off when he saw his wife across the room, a dry woman covered in a great wave of diamonds breaking in sprays against her desert shore. I've got the rank, but damned if I can find a way to publicly keep her without hell to pay. Have to keep my girls on the quiet side. Neya bless that little Cosetta of mine. Say, would you like an introduction to the Shelstone chit, old thing? He jerked his head at his son; Fennows dutifully led the increasingly nervous girl through the throng to the King.

Your Majesty, said the lordling, may I make known to you Miss Twenna Shelstone, daughter of Mr Elbig Shelstone of Newtown.

She was even prettier up close—stunning, in fact, with a peach complexion and an unfeigned sweetness suggesting her supposed ambitions were entirely her father's. She made her curtsey. May I have this dance, Miss Shelstone? said the King, raising the astonished girl to her feet.

He expected her to giggle, but instead her face lit up in a radiant smile. I would like it above all things, Your Majesty! He led her onto the floor.

Oh, sir! she burbled as they began the long graceful loops of the dance, "I have lived in the shadow of the Keep my whole life and have hungered to be inside and see its splendors! Now that I am here, I am filled with—with— she stammered, aiming for the right word and missing with room to spare— with vehemence! And I never thought I'd dance with the King!" she added.

Usually wide-eyed girls bored him, but Twenna's artlessness extended to an unwitting, innocent physicality. She leaned into his touch like a little animal enjoying its fur being stroked—a natural voluptuary. Harsin found himself increasingly charmed: a beautiful, inexperienced girl ripe for the plucking, uncomplicated and begging to be molded. To take such a girl under his protection might be charming indeed.

Later that evening, The Duke of Corland watched the King and the tailor's daughter disappear within moments of one another. Twenna had caught the royal eye much faster than he'd expected. So much the better. A tremulous voice interrupted his happy musings: My Lord Corland!

At his elbow he found an overly elegant little man, his round belly supported on spindly legs. Oh. Hullo, Shelstone, said Corland; he'd almost forgotten the girl's father was here.

"I do thank you so very much for your notice of myself and my daughter."

Corland shifted his weight from uneasy heel to toe. Not a-tall. One always wishes to see interesting people at these things, I should think.

The former tailor beamed, his smile as pomaded as his hair. But putting in a word to the royal family's social secretary—!

The Duke winced. Lady Olster had owed him a great favor; it had galled him to spend such dear coin on Shelstone and his daughter, but it served the greater purpose. The Duke pulled the former tailor to one side. Listen, old thing. Let's not bandy that about, eh? Just between us. Tell your girl the same. Discretion is the watch word.

Discretion?

In fact, I do not wish to be seen speaking with you.

Discretion, certainly, said Shelstone, bobbing his head in confusion. Nevertheless, I shall always be grateful—

Just remember that gratitude. Excuse me. Corland sidled away toward the buffet. As the Crown owned the best vineyards, the King always had the best wine, and the Duke wanted a great deal of it.

Temmin, meanwhile, was enjoying his birthday party immensely; he'd been in society such a short time before Supplicancy. He liked dancing, he liked pretty women whose sole aim was to charm him, he liked sparkling wine, and above all he liked studying Allis and Issak as they sailed through the room's political shoals and depths. He'd learned a great deal about politics in the year he'd been in the Capital, both in and out of the Temple. He escorted his latest partner to the sidelines and her next partner.

Thirst pounced on him, and instead of taking a new partner he went in search of something to drink. Wine was all very well, but it wasn't quenching. Temmin spotted a curtained-off servants' hallway to one side of the room. A year ago there had been water in that hallway for the servants, and he wanted water. He pushed open the curtains and went inside unnoticed.

Temmin's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Exactly a year ago he'd danced here with Arta Dannikson, an extremely pretty downstairs maid. In his father's attempts to stop his Supplicancy, Arta had been both human bait and hostage. Temmin remembered the knife at her throat as Harsin tried to force him from the Lovers' Temple. She and her sweetheart Fen were safe at the Estate now; Arta was learning to read and write, and Fen was learning the care of horses. From what their letters told him, especially Arta's painstakingly copied ones, they were busy for the moment, but he'd have to figure out what to do with them longer term at some point.

Temmin drank three dippers of water and strolled back to the hallway's opening to observe the brightly dressed throng. Last year was his first chance to enjoy the company of beautiful women—any women, at least those close to his own age who weren't related to him. Even Mattie. Pretty, hazel-eyed Mattie, the young servant girl he'd almost raped in a drunken haze the night before he left home. Mattie, who'd turned out to be his half-sister. Temmin shuddered. More than once he'd wondered what had become of her, and whether she knew they were related. Letters from home said she and her mother had left Reggiston in a great hurry; he suspected his parents had a hand in that. He wished he knew where she was. He wanted to make amends to her himself.

Temmin sighed. He would find her when he left the Temple next year. For now, duty required him to rejoin the dancers.

Early spring in Corland could hardly be called spring at all, especially in the little city of Arren. It sat far to the north, just on Tremont's side of the border with the Northern Wastes, and winter loved it far too much to leave on time. Downy snow still fell from the sky, determined to smother the streets like an overstuffed featherbed. Mattisanis Ambleson—the former Mattie Dunley of Meadow House, Whithorse Estate—thought it beautiful. The cold rimed everything in brilliant, magical whiteness, hushed, as a breath held. Or perhaps lost. Ever since meeting Adrik Adrikov just after Neya's Day the year before, she had been breathless.

Tonight at the Heir's Birthday celebration in Arren's most modern public ballroom, Mattie's mama sat frowning with the other chaperones, but Mattie sparkled as brightly as the snow outside as she swept down the floor in Adrik's arms. The gaslight gilded her dark hair and shone in her hazel eyes. How wonderful of you to buy us tickets, Mr Adrikov!

How could anyone deny you such a pleasure—anyone knowing how you love to dance, he smiled, his Corrish accent silky and rich as good chocolate. Mattie loved it when he smiled; his large, deep brown eyes turning down at the outside corners gave his face a melancholy cast otherwise. When he smiled, his eyes took on a sly kindness, as if he contained happy surprises within surprises like a Corrish nesting doll.

Among the chaperones, Mistress Ambleson's fidgets increased, and Mattie's pleasure wilted round the edges. Mama could.

Mama could, indeed. There had been quite the argument when Mr Adrikov's invitation arrived. Tellis Ambleson insisted they could not attend such a public event, that we must keep a low profile, Mattie, I have told you this and told you this!

"But never why, Mama, and until you tell me why we changed our name and moved away from Reggiston, I see no reason why I mightn't go out—oh please, Mama, I don't wish to be beastly! See? Mr Adrikov has provided you with a ticket as well, there is nothing unseemly about it, you will be with us." Mattie's wheedling, and Mama's reluctance to part with the secret, had finally procured her permission, but clearly she was thinking twice.

Mistress Ambleson is a loving mother, said Adrik. She worries about letting her beautiful lamb of a daughter out of the fold, where all the wolves might pick up her scent.

Mattie laughed, pleased at flattery she knew was still true: she was beautiful. Her mother had been beautiful, and was handsome even at the decrepit age of thirty-eight. Mattie had inherited her heart-shaped face, neat figure and hazel eyes, but Mattie's almost-too-pronounced nose and near-black hair must have come from some unknown ancestor. Her Papa'd had kind if watery pale blue eyes, a button nose and sandy, receding hair that almost blended into his forehead. For a moment, his memory squeezed at her heart; he'd found great joy in music and dancing, and would have loved being here tonight to dance with her mother. Mattie would have loved for him to meet Adrik Adrikov, the love of her life, but Papa was five years gone.

Adrik encircled her waist to guide her up the form; the warmth of his body so close to hers brought her to the present. Warmth bloomed every time he touched her, no matter how slight or decorous the contact. He had not made an offer yet and of course had thus not won the right to kiss her, but in bed at night she thought of little else but Adrik, how it would feel when he finally did kiss her. Would his mustache tickle? Would she like that? She thought she might.

Miss Ambleson? his voice interrupted her musings. I do wonder what you're thinking, your eyes sparkle so.

She returned her attention to the room and laughed. Some day you'll know!

Pawl the footman opened the Amblesons' front door, dull-witted and stifling more yawns than usual. Why did we have to come home, Mama? said Mattie.

"What d'you mean, why? It's two in the morning!" answered her mother.

Mattie trailed upstairs after her. But everyone was still there! They weren't scheduled to stop dancing until four at the earliest! Mama, why have you taken such a dislike to Ad—Mr Adrikov?

Tellis paused at the drawing room door long enough to call for tea and aimed herself at her favorite chair by the drawing room fire. Once the two were settled with their tea before them and the door firmly closed, Tellis let out a great sigh. Oh, Mattie. It's too soon.

Too soon? Mama, we've known one another since Spring's End last year, and here it's Spring's Beginning—almost an entire year!

"No, no, not that. It's too soon since we left...Reggiston!" she whispered loudly.

Mattie bounced in her chair. "Until you tell me why, that will never be explanation enough!"

Tellis tapped her fingers together in her lap, a nervous habit that sometimes sent Mattie into exasperated fits; now, it signaled that perhaps she might finally learn the secret. Mattie...you must believe me when I tell you this is a very great secret, a burden I'd always hoped to carry for you. I never wanted you to know this. You must tell no one, do you understand? Huge tears pooled in Tellis's eyes; Mattie bit at her lip in alarm. "We are in danger if you tell anyone, Mattie, do you understand? Promise me!"

She nodded.

Tellis exhaled and tried to pick up her teacup but trembled so hard she gave up. You thought you were dismissed from Meadow House last year, because...because of what happened between you and the Heir.

Mattie's stomach clenched at the memory of that night, a year ago almost to the day. She wouldn't have minded the Prince's attentions in a different context. He was quite handsome but he was also quite drunk when he'd discovered her half-dressed in the hedge alley with her sweetheart. If she hadn't done exactly what the Prince said, she knew she'd be cashiered though he'd said otherwise. She'd done what he asked—no more than a few kisses and some fumbling gropes at her breasts before he threw up—but her mother had fetched her home before the spoke was out, just as she'd known would happen. If that wasn't it, then what was it?

They paid me to take you away.

Who paid you? Why?

Her mother's trembling increased. The royal family. Here is the secret, oh my Mattie, my darling girl! She looked old and frightened, and suddenly Mattie was frightened, too. Mattie, you are not Mr Dunley's girl. You're the King's.

Mattie let out a strangled laugh. What?

You are an Antremont, not a Dunley. You are the daughter of His Majesty King Harsin. You know I was in service at the Great House, yes? The King saw me there, when Prince Temmin was born. It was only three times, but I got you from it, my precious, precious girl.

She thought of Papa, how he held her hand as they walked home to the tavern after Paggday market, how his laugh rang out when he joked with customers in the taproom, how he always smelled of sweet pipe smoke when he kissed her goodnight. Papa wasn't my father?

"He was your father in all the ways that matter, sweetheart! Darwas knew you weren't his, he married me when I was already two spokes gone, but oh, but he was your Papa! He loved you so much, Mattie, never, never doubt that! cried her mother. Mattie sat silent, staring at nothing while her mother sobbed. After many sniffs and shudders, Tellis brought her tears under control. No one knew but your Papa for the longest time, though I think Standfast Jenks always suspected. He would never say anything, though, that dear man. He must have spoken out for fear... She shuddered into her handkerchief again. He must have been afraid the Prince might send for you, and that would not do."

No. Mattie's eyes turned hot and heavy. I'm tired now, Mama. I know you are. Perhaps you and I should turn in.

Tellis hugged her close and whispered love into her ear as they parted on the landing outside their bedrooms. Ianna the parlor maid came to her after attending her mother, helped her out of her gown and then into bed. Mattie blew out the candle. She lay in the dark, her head too full for sleep.

She was Mattisanis Antremont, not Mattisanis Dunley. Prince Temmin was her brother. That made the Princesses her sisters. She had always wanted brothers and sisters. Now she had three. Did this make her a Princess, too? No, all it made her was a bastard. If Adrik found out, he wouldn't offer for her. But could she deceive him? Tears rose into her eyes and throat in a flood, pouring from her heart until she fell asleep.

Temmin danced until the others dragged him away, making up for the spokes spent isolated from society in general and his family in particular. Now he followed Anda and the twins into the staff foyer of the Lovers' Temple and he wasn't tired a bit. But the musicians were still playing! he protested, stubbornly bringing up the rear.

"Because you were still there," said Anda.

Have pity, Tem! It's nearly five—they were falling asleep clutching their instruments, said Allis.

Issak rumpled Temmin's already hectic hair on his way to the stairs leading to his suite. Master Sullo was this close to dropping his baton.

But I was enjoying myself! It's my birthday! I'm not tired!

"I am, said Anda. I can't believe you're not exhausted—you danced almost every dance and drank I don't know how much sparkling wine."

We royals have strong constitutions. Ellika was still dancing when we left!

Your sister has feet of steel, Issak called from the landing above them. Goodnight, Temmin Supplicant!

Anda kissed him. Goodnight, Tem. I'm going to sleep. By myself. Don't come near me unless you intend to rub my feet. Unlike your sister's, mine are made of mere flesh. Very sore flesh. She hobbled through the back door of the Supplicants Chamber.

Hmf, said Temmin, scratching his chin. I'm still not sleepy!

Good, smiled Allis.

He swiveled, surprised to see she hadn't followed her brother upstairs. Good?

Good. She twined her arms around him, stood up on her toes and kissed him.

He'd never gotten used to her kisses; the hair on his nape still bristled, warm shivers still shook him. He never got as many as he wanted, either. Though he'd come here in no small part for her, they spent only limited, official time together—never more so than lately. Temmin bent over to let her feet rest on the floor, and the kiss ended, their foreheads touching. Is this a kiss goodnight?

Not unless you want it to be.

He kissed her again. I never want to say goodnight to you.

Then you are a rude young man. She took his hand and led him up the Embodiments' stairs. At the top stood two doors; the red with white carvings led to Issak's suite, the white with red carvings led to Allis's. She opened her door and pushed him inside, laughing.

Temmin caught her by her slim waist. "So this is my birthday present."

She stiffened. I am not a present.

Her abrupt change in mood startled him. She was usually so hard to read, keeping all but the most professional, compassionate parts locked away, and when she let down her guard he didn't know what to do. No, you are a gift, he began. That's different from a present, isn't it? Presents are things. You are not a thing, but you are still a gift, at least to me.

I'm sorry. She held him close, resting her head on his chest with a small tremor.

He stroked her black hair. What brought this on?

Perhaps I'm more tired than I thought.

He kept himself from drooping. Shall I go back downstairs?

No, no, please don't go, she